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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277208">Still Q</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses'>earlybloomingparentheses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sibilant Series [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Again, Begging, Bondage, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Q listens while Bond has sex, Voyeurism, an actual honest to goodness PWP again at long last</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:21:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277208</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Q has to be still. He has to be silent. Unless he wants this woman to find him, naked, cock leaking, spread-eagled and tied down, underneath the bed.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Bond ties Q down and fucks somebody else.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James Bond/OFC, James Bond/Q</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Sibilant Series [7]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/371081</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Still Q</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>you guys, it's some sex!! some hot filthy sex with little to no angst!! the good and/or bad news: there is one more installment coming soon, and it's long, and it will have way more relationship development than I ever intended to include in this series. stay tuned.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Bond,” Q whines, palming at the man’s cock through his trousers. “I really need to get fucked.”</p><p>Bond rocks his hips a little so Q, sitting on his lap, feels a jolt of arousal straight through him. “Poor baby,” Bond says.</p><p>“God.” Q pants, throwing his head back. Straddling Bond is wildly erotic but it’s not going to get him off, not at this angle. “God, Bond, I really need it.”</p><p>Bond lets Q writhe, feet planted firmly on the floor. “You’re particularly slutty today.”</p><p>Q squeezes his eyes shut. His body is <em>burning</em> with need. “Yes,” he gasps. “I know. I just…”</p><p>He’s just been thinking about Bond’s cock for five days straight. Bond’s been sticking it somewhere else this past week—some woman he met at some bar, some swanky place that puts gold leaf on their tiny plates of oysters, Q knows because there are flecks of gold in Bond’s shit—and Q is just about gagging for it at this point. Which Bond knows perfectly fucking well.</p><p>“You just what?”</p><p>“Just need it in me,” Q gasps out. “Need your prick, need it up my arse, I can’t—can’t stand it, please, fuck me, please, don’t you want to? Aren’t I good for you? A good fuck? I try, Bond, please I try so hard to be a good fuck for you, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me, anything, anything, just put it in me, <em>please</em>—”</p><p>Bond sucks in a breath. Q’s only half putting on a show, he means every word, doesn’t care if he sounds like a desperate little tart, he <em>is </em>desperate. His arsehole is hot with need, gaping, empty. Q’s own fingers haven’t come close to filling it up, as much as he’s tried in the last week. “You’re so big,” he whines, “please, I need it.”</p><p>Bond stands abruptly. Q, knocked off balance, slides off Bond’s legs ungracefully, hands scrabbling for purchase on Bond or the chair to stop himself hitting the floor. He lands on his arse anyway.</p><p>Bond looks down at him. “I have something I want you to do first.”</p><p>Q swallows, looking up. “Okay,” he says. “Anything.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the bedroom—Bond’s bedroom, though Q knows perfectly well this isn’t Bond’s actual flat, the one where he lives when he’s not having company over—Bond undresses Q, then tells him to get under the bed. Q, heart in his throat, obeys. His cock is still pulsing with need.</p><p>“On your back,” Bond says. He kneels down and, one by one, stretches out Q’s limbs and ties each one to a bedpost. Q is starfished, nose inches from the mattress and the wooden slats that support it. His bafflement doesn’t stop his erection, his forehead already glistening with anticipation.</p><p>Bond stands and pulls the blankets down so they brush the floor on either side of the bed. Bond’s feet disappear, replaced by fabric heavy enough to leave Q in semidarkness, the light of the room filtering through onto his prone, naked body.</p><p>He hears Bond take out his phone. Hears him leave the room. Hears him murmur in the hall. Waits.</p><p>Soon enough, there are footsteps coming down the hall. Not Bond’s—a lighter step, but louder. The click of heels.</p><p>“Hello, darling,” says a voice.</p><p>It’s posh. Melodic. Just the right note of flirty insincerity.</p><p>“Hello,” says Bond.</p><p>Q swallows, hard.</p><p>“Is it all set up?” the woman asks. “The microphone?”</p><p>Their footsteps come closer. Into the bedroom.</p><p>“Yes,” says Bond. “He’s listening right now.”</p><p>“Hello, James’ boyfriend, wherever you are,” the woman calls out, low, lascivious. “You’re a lucky man.”</p><p>Q hears Bond’s grunt of a laugh and the woman’s quick exhalation as he grabs her. A kiss. The sound of a kiss. Q’s pulse races. Holy shit.</p><p>“Ahh,” the woman moans. “James.”</p><p>“You like that?”</p><p>“Ye-es.”</p><p>What’s happening? Q’s mind frantically conjures images: Bond’s hand on her breast, her arse, between her legs. She’s breathing hard. A noise of feet on the floor, and then—</p><p>A thud as the mattress dips sharply, down closer to Q’s nose. Just above him, movement, noise. He inhales through sharply, shocked; his wrists pull in of their own accord, but the rope stops them short. He stills as fast as he can. He has to be still. He has to be silent. Unless he wants this woman to find him, naked, cock leaking, spread-eagled and tied down, underneath the bed.</p><p>“Ah,” gasps the woman. A moan; a delicate grunt. Q hears the shuffle of fabric, the clink of metal, the sound of a zip.</p><p>“Oh,” Bond says, voice muffled, “you’re soaking wet.”</p><p>A sharp gasp, and the unmistakable sound of a lapping tongue.</p><p>Q bites his lip hard enough to hurt. The mattress creaks above him as the woman writhes, letting out short high keening <em>oh</em>s as Bond eats her out.</p><p>“Your poor boyfriend,” she says eventually, voice strained. “He’ll never get to have your mouth on his cunt. Your boyfriend isn’t lucky enough to have a cunt, is he?”</p><p>“No, he isn’t.”</p><p>“Poor boy.”</p><p>A snort from Bond. “He gets my mouth on his dick. When he deserves it.”</p><p>“Not the same,” the woman says. “Ahh—<em>god</em>. Not as…fuck. Messy. Your face is covered in it.”</p><p>Q’s hand moves to cover his mouth, but again is pulled short by the rope. He breathes as slowly as possible, each inhale and exhale trembling to burst out in a <em>whoosh</em>.</p><p>“He’s got a sweet little arsehole, though,” says Bond.</p><p>“Sweeter than mine?” A moment, and then—“Oh, <em>fuck.</em>”</p><p>“You like that?”</p><p>“Yes. I don’t know. Maybe—ah. <em>Ahh</em>.”</p><p>“Never had a man put his tongue up your arse before?”</p><p>“Never had a man—shit—fuck me while his boyfriend listened, either. Most men don’t—most men don’t admit they—”</p><p>“Sleep with other people?” Bond’s voice is amused. “Or enjoy fucking men?”</p><p>“God, I’d kill to see you with your cock up some pretty boy’s arse,” the woman pants, and the mattress dips and shakes violently, bodies rearranging.</p><p>“Most women would,” Bond says, low, and she cries out. What, Q wonders wildly, what did he just do? The mattress jostles again. Sweat drips down Q’s face. His arms are getting sore from being held in place.</p><p>The slick sound of skin on skin. More muffled moans. Bond’s breathing is finally picking up. Q hears the crinkle of what sounds like a condom wrapper and bites his lip again, hard.</p><p>“Just like that,” Bond says as the mattress starts to shift again. The woman stops moving. “On your stomach. Gonna fuck your slippery wet cunt, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah,” the woman gasps, “yeah—”</p><p>She gives a little cry, half startled half exultant—<em>god, </em>Q thinks, <em>god, he’s in her, </em>just above Q, her cunt, Bond’s dick, inches from his own—and Bond starts thrusting.</p><p>The slats creak with each thrust. The mattress moves: up and down, pressing closer to Q each time it dips, but not close enough, not close enough for him to arc up and reach it. The woman is moaning rhythmically, <em>ah ah ah ah ah</em>, and Bond’s breath escapes in a <em>whoosh </em>each time he fucks into her. Q is getting lightheaded, literally dizzy, he’s been holding his breath, holding himself still; the effort of keeping silent is—is—he breathes, breathes, too much air, vision going blurry for a moment, and all the while his prick is upright, blood-flushed, his body protesting the lack of contact.</p><p>“<em>Ahh</em>,” the woman moans, “<em>ahhh</em>—James, James I—ah—ah <em>ahh ahhh</em>—” One cut-off howl and the bed bucks, Bond still fucking into her as she comes, making the mattress shake and strain.</p><p>Tears leak from Q’s eyes as he squeezes his lips together, pushing down his own howl, fighting to escape.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bond comes later, her hand sliding noisily up and down his dick. Q, by the end of it, is exhausted, aching arms and legs lying heavily on the floor, hair damp, lungs worn out, cock still, somehow, standing tall. He is like that when Bond comes to get him, after the woman has left, heels clicking, last kisses exchanged.</p><p>Bond’s fingers work free first Q’s ankles and then his wrists. Q rotates them, wincing, and then slides himself awkwardly out from under the bed, slick skin sticking on the wooden floor.</p><p>Bond lets out a laugh when he sees him. For all that he’s just been through a vigorous fuck, he looks composed, hair barely mussed.</p><p>“You look like a drowned rat,” he says. “Get up and I’ll take care of your…little problem.”</p><p>The bedsheets are rumpled and damp beneath Q’s naked skin. The smell of sex permeates the air. His fingers land in a patch of Bond’s spunk.</p><p>“Microphone?” he asks.</p><p>Bond shrugs. “That was the plan, but I thought it’d be more fun if you were worried about getting caught.”</p><p>Q’s arse has started moving again, wriggling—still so damn empty.</p><p>“Boyfriend?”</p><p>Bond barks out another laugh. He swings himself up onto the bed and starts to work his cock, hanging soft between his legs. “You gonna help me get it up again?” Bond asks. He moves up, straddling Q’s chest, prick hanging suggestively near Q’s parted lips.</p><p>It smells like cunt. Bond used a condom, but her scent is still there, thick and strange, on Bond’s thighs and pubic hair.</p><p>“You’re gonna have to if you want to get fucked,” Bond says. “You still wanna get fucked, Q?”</p><p>“Yes,” Q gasps out, and opens his mouth.</p>
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